Chapter 19
The morning air clung to the manor walls like a memory too stubborn to fade. A gray light filtered in through the arched windows, subdued and quiet, as if the world itself knew someone was about to leave.
Lysander stood in the front hallway, a leather satchel slung across his shoulder and his newly purchased gauntlet secured to his right arm. The steel glinted faintly, but even its polish seemed dulled by the somber atmosphere.
"You really mean to go?" his father asked, standing tall in the doorway of his study. The man wasn't armored or armed, just clad in his long dark coat, eyes sharper than any sword.
Lysander nodded. "It's time."
His father didn't answer immediately. Instead, he motioned for him to come inside. The study smelled of aged paper, ash, and the faint bitterness of cold tea. Lysander entered, the door clicking softly behind him.
"Sit."
He did.
The elder Caspian leaned against the edge of his desk. "You have your mother's stubbornness, you know. Once she set her eyes on something, not even the gods could change her mind."
Lysander tried to smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "Guess I inherited more than just her hair."
"Hmph." His father ran a hand through his beard. "Then listen well. If you plan to take this seriously—adventuring, that is—you need to be back by the time you turn sixteen."
Lysander looked up. "Why?"
"Because by then, you'll be eligible for enrollment into the Awakened Academy." His tone was calm, but behind the words was something unspoken, tight in the chest. "You don't just skip the academy if you want to survive beyond D-rank."
"I'll be back," Lysander said. "If anything, I'll be stronger by then."
His father studied him for a long time. "The world doesn't care how strong you think you are. It only sees how much you can bleed."
Lysander shifted. He felt the gauntlet on his arm, heavy and grounding.
"Just make sure the world doesn't bleed you dry before you even make a name for yourself."
He stood. They exchanged no hug, no dramatic parting words. Just a nod from father to son. One warrior to another.
Lysander left the study and walked through the silent halls of the manor. The portraits on the walls seemed to watch him go, oil eyes filled with judgment and curiosity.
He paused briefly at the entrance to the library, his fingers brushing the wooden frame. So many hours had been wasted in that room, pretending to study, pretending to care.
Down the hall was the garden. It lay quiet now, mist curling between the trimmed hedges and flowerbeds like ghostly ribbons. He remembered hiding behind those hedges as a boy, watching Julius train with fire dancing in his palms.
But now there was no one.
The manor was still, caught between one heartbeat and the next.
He stepped out into the courtyard. A lone servant nodded at him and held the reins of a single black steed, saddled and packed.
Lysander mounted wordlessly.
As the gates opened, he glanced back.
Gray stones, ivy-clad walls, windows like blind eyes. It wasn't much, but it had been home.
A part of him wanted to stay.
But that part was small. Weak.
He rode away from Caspian Manor, dust rising behind him, a shadow of a boy chasing the horizon.
And behind him, the wind whispered through empty halls, carrying with it the soft echo of a name once spoken in laughter, now fading into silence.